


ofella

by handydandynotebook



Series: axecution [7]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Breakfast, Complicated Relationships, Crack and Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Religion, Scones, Strained Relationships, Susan Hargrove Needs Help, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29932401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handydandynotebook/pseuds/handydandynotebook
Summary: She did make one decision that she can’t blame on fear or panic. Billy was on the carpet, bloody hands shielding the grisly glimpse of wet membrane and Susan must’ve decided he was collateral damage because she picked up the axe anyway. Billy didn’t even know what was going on and she stepped over his bleeding form anyway.Stopping Neil was more important than saving Billy. Because stopping Neil meant protecting Max and protecting Max was more important than saving Billy. It always was, always had been, it was no less true that night than any other.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Susan Hargrove, Susan Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield
Series: axecution [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121561
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	ofella

**Author's Note:**

> part 7. i have spent an unreasonable amount of time on axethis.com while writing this series and i have a new appreciation for axes i did not have prior, even as someone who defo enjoys recreational throwing. i kinda want to get a fiskars 375581-1001 chopping axe just bc they're SO PRETTY ~~i like my axes black just like my metal🎤 *shot*~~ even tho i have not shit to chop ahjjhdgsigsig. srsly, the craftsmanship that goes into some of these things is remarkable.
> 
> on another note, ambien apparently wasn't a thing in the 80s but if it was, this would've been a totally different fic.
> 
> edit 03-12-21, added dead dove tag for the brief but p uncomfortable context of the masturbation.
> 
> edit 03-13-21, changed summary upon realizing the first one was slightly pervy.

Susan spends more of the night watching Max sleep than sleeping herself. Peers at her under the moonbeams that stream between the blinds. Makes out the shape of her head lolled off to the side, the bulk of her sling and the pillows it’s propped upon, the bare foot poking out from under the blanket. 

Susan can’t make it up to her, she never will. Not any of it. Not life with Neil. Not the horrors she endured back to back of being attacked in her own bedroom, emerging in the dead of night to see yet another gruesome scene unfold, becoming involved in it for Billy’s sake, the following frenzy of wailing sirens and flashing lights. 

Max told Susan she didn’t want to be the reason she went crazy and that, that despite everything Neil was and did, Max could ever feel any minute modicum of responsibility in the things that came to a head that night…it doesn’t sit well with Susan. Neither does the notion that she went crazy at all. 

Susan was panicked, certainly. She made mistakes. Oh Lord, did she make mistakes— not drugging Neil at dinner, namely —but she isn’t a raving lunatic. She wasn’t a raving lunatic that night, either, she simply panicked. Surely anyone reasonable would panic their first time killing another person, scum of a person or not. Although it’s not as if Susan blames Max for feeling like she went crazy. 

She truly doesn’t remember shouting anything but knows she must have. Max wouldn’t lie about that firstly and secondly, how would she know what was going through Susan’s mind otherwise? How would she know that detail about Neil’s head?

Nor does Susan recall the mechanics of braining Billy. She knows she did, of course, she’s agonized over it since, but she was so scattered, she earnestly doesn’t recall raising the axe over her head to do so. She just meant to...well, he was already on the floor. She stands five feet eleven inches, the axe handle is about two and a half feet, so that’s…oh dear, she wants to think she wouldn’t have done that because she sincerely didn’t want to cause Billy more harm, but…Max certainly saw things Susan couldn't. 

Really, hitting Billy was stupid regardless. Especially with Max so close. Max desperately trying to keep his insides inside, one-handed at that. 

Her daughter’s weekend went from being attacked in her own bedroom, suffering for Susan doesn’t even know how long, requiring a hospital trip for her own broken bones, only to end up back there mere hours later for a touch-and-go Billy after being dragged into a grotesque and bloody crime scene. The days that followed were hardly less stressful. Lies and small town nosiness, casseroles and plants dumped off by gossipers disguised as well-wishers who Susan’s sure just wanted to break up their dull days to take a gander at the crime scene, never mind none of these oh so concerned neighbors were ever all that concerned when Neil was shouting her to petrified silence or slamming her stepson up against the wall. 

Logically Susan knows that’s not the kind of thing she can hold against anyone. Neil kept his true self behind closed doors. Susan never told anyone what he was like, frankly, she didn't have anyone to trust enough to tell. But she feels bitter anyway. Certainly didn’t appreciate the excessive attention in the least, left holding her breath beneath every ring of the doorbell. Another responsibility that had fallen on Max. Max, injured and thoroughly traumatized, who shouldn’t have had to be responsible for anything at all. 

Susan watches her daughter sleep and hates herself so deeply it singes her soul, coats her mouth with something foul. 

Sleep isn’t forthcoming. Susan usually cleans when she can’t sleep but she doesn’t want Max to be disturbed by the noise. She supposes she could clean downstairs. There are certainly things that need cleaning downstairs. 

Susan slinks from the living room on careful tiptoe and treads down the steps. She should try cleaning the axe again, she supposes. She doesn’t think she’ll ever take it out of the safe or use it again. But she should clean it anyway. 

She isn’t entirely sure what came over her last time, how she ended up doing what she did instead of what she came to do. She doesn’t care to dwell on it. It won’t happen again. 

Susan’s body doesn’t seem to be on the same page as her intentions. She opens the safe, the scent of dried blood hits her, and she feels warmth stir between her thighs. She worries her lip between her teeth and does her best to ignore it. 

Susan reaches into the safe, traces the stained, flaking curve of the blade with the tip of her fingernail. 

It’s ironic, really. Susan thought Neil spent too much money on the thing at the time. It’s a quality, sturdy felling age. Curved, lacquered robust hickory handle. Four pound, razor sharp Swedish steel head. An axe like this could cut through Hawkins's quaint Christmas tree farm. She’d found it silly for Neil to buy such a nice axe for one slim, solo crabapple tree. Surely a smaller, cheaper hatchet would’ve been the more sensible way to go for the single modest tree it was being purchased for. 

Not that she’d verbally protested, of course. Susan only wandered her way over to the aisle with the lawn ornaments and stared wistfully at darling garden gnomes her husband would never let her display. She didn’t breathe a word of objection about what she’d believed was an unnecessary, practically extravagant purchase. 

Never could Susan have ever imagined she’d get more use out of the axe than Neil. Now here she is, delicately tracing the blade bathed in his rusty dried blood. She can still feel it. Feels his blood splash her skin the same way she feels the boom of his voice rattle through her rib cage. 

Will it ever go away? 

Will any of it ever go away? 

Heat surges beneath Susan’s skin as the unsettling enormity of it all leaves her stomach in ropes and God Almighty, who would it really kill if she just…? 

She’s warped anyway. 

Susan pulls the axe from the safe and rapidly swipes her tongue along the broad side of the head. She goes in for a second lick, longer, the taste spilling into her mouth. Her free hand slips beneath the elastic waistband of her silky shorts as she licks it again, lavishes the bloodstained steel with a slow, attentive sweep. She savors every lap of the grim, loathsome taste as she works her fingers inside. 

Inevitably the head of the axe is cleaned and Susan’s shorts are soaked in the crotch, damp fabric brushing balefully against her scorching flesh. Fingertips pruned from her own slick and ringed with red from blood wet anew. 

She puts it back. Shuts the door with metal in her mouth. She won’t think about it.

When Susan creeps back up the steps, she’s surprised to see the kitchen light on. Max stands at the sink, filling herself a glass of water from the tap. 

“Are you okay?” Susan asks, gulping down a gob of coppery saliva. “Did you have another nightmare?” 

“Yeah,” Max admits, low and weary. She shuts off the faucet and glances up to Susan, brows jumping to her hairline. “Whoa, is that blood all over your mouth?”

“Oh!” Susan smacks a hand over her lips harder than she intends, the sting resonating as she awkwardly wipes off what she can with her palm. “I bit my tongue.” 

“Ouch, looks like a pretty bad bite.” Max frowns. “What were you doing downstairs anyway? It’s so late.” 

“Just tidying up.” Susan’s heart stutters in her chest. 

“Why? No one ever goes in the basement.” Her daughter seems to be reading her, frown deepening.

“…I just couldn’t sleep, Max.” 

“Oh.” Max picks up her glass and takes a sip. “I don’t know if I can go back to sleep, either. Do you wanna put on a movie?” 

“You have school tomorrow,” Susan reminds her pointedly. 

“Can’t I stay home?” Max takes another sip of water and tilts her head. 

Susan wants to let her. Max doesn’t really skip class just for the sake of it, although Susan’s sure her eagerness to go has much more to do more with her friends than her studies. But if she wants to stay home, it certainly isn’t out of mere laziness. On the other hand, the last thing Susan needs to do is draw attention to herself if Max gets in trouble for truancy. It's too soon to tell if she's truly in the clear for what she can't count on a jury understanding absolutely had to be done. 

“I don’t know, honey. You already missed quite a few days this month.” 

“Yeah but I had real good excuses. Broken collarbone? Break-in? Axe murdered stepdad?” 

“Maxine—“ 

“Well it’s true, everyone knows. I mean, they don’t _know_ know, but they like, know. We’re the axe murder house now. Kids ask me questions like ten times a day.” 

“Is that why you don’t want to go?” Susan frowns. 

Max shakes her head. “Nah, they’re nosy jerks but I can handle them. My friends helped me handle them too. With everything, pretty much. Taking my notes since I can’t write and carrying some of my stuff around…being in a sling really sucks, but I have good friends.” 

Susan’s heart quietly shreds itself anew and she has feelings there is nothing left to do with because she did all that there was left to do already, and even then it wasn’t enough. The blood is still a memory clogging up her throat and the damp fabric between her thighs is cool now and it still wasn’t enough to get out all the hate. And there’s only so much hate Susan can bear. She’s silently devoured right where she stands under the yellowy kitchen light, isn’t strong enough to stop it, doesn’t even try. 

“You can stay home tomorrow,” Susan decides. “I’ll call you in.” 

Max asks for so little, at the end of the day. 

"Thanks, Mom."

Max finishes her glass of water and goes back to her own room. Susan sleeps maybe an hour or so on the couch, then paws through Billy’s jacket on the coat rack at about ten to seven because the drug store opens at seven and if she’s already up might as well be productive with her time. 

She fills his prescription and selects a couple rolls of gauze from the shelf. He didn’t mention being out of anything else but since Susan is here, she goes ahead and adds some more tape and another package of sterile pads to her basket. It isn’t until she gets back in the car that one of the worst truths inside her untangles itself from the nest and slithers up her back. 

Susan was going to let Billy die. 

She doesn’t really care to grapple with that one. It’s bad enough she chopped into him— that’s forgivable, she was genuinely afraid it was Neil approaching. And striking him with the butt, while incredibly moronic in retrospect, she was panicking and she moved before she could actually consider the consequences. Things made sense that night that don’t make sense now and the reverse is truth, things that make sense probably wouldn’t have made sense then even if Susan’d had the time to consider them. 

But she did make one decision that she can’t blame on fear or panic. Billy was on the carpet, bloody hands shielding the grisly glimpse of wet membrane and Susan must’ve decided he was collateral damage because she picked up the axe anyway. Billy didn’t even know what was going on and she stepped over his bleeding form anyway. 

Stopping Neil was more important than saving Billy. Because stopping Neil meant protecting Max and protecting Max was more important than saving Billy. It always was, always had been, it was no less true that night than any other. 

It makes Susan sick to confront this and think about it, to sit here in the driver's seat and live in it. Because Billy was something else. Troublemaking wild card, bursting at the seams with all the wrong kinds of piss and vinegar. He was a feral, howling hurricane of a stepchild but he never deserved what Neil dished out and he didn’t deserve to be stepped over as the blood oozed through his fingers, either, but it’s exactly what she did. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have died, even if Max didn’t help. Maybe he would’ve been okay anyway. Billy is durable, sturdy in his stubbornness. But Max did help and when she started screaming for Susan to help there was fear in every syllable. In any case, it’s the principle of the uncertainty, the fact that he was gushing blood and Susan distinctly saw something visceral in the gap between split flesh. It’s that she picked up the axe instead of assisting a wounded teenager she’d shared with a dinner table and dysfunction for seven years. 

She would’ve let him die. Of course she would’ve let him die, Max had to come first, Max always came first. The saddest part is that Billy probably would’ve understood that more likely than not and it’s horrible that he’s even thought about such things— horrible that Susan could never claim to be a mindreader but knows, knows precisely because of the dinner tables and dysfunction that Billy certainly has thought about how Max comes first, always, and acted accordingly. 

So Susan would’ve let Billy die and surely she had to, as a mother, but…she still doesn’t like to think about it. To remember and know it, know that accidental chopping or not, the moment Susan readjusted her grip on the blood speckled hickory haft, she had decided taking her husband’s life was more important than saving her stepson’s. That helping Billy wasn’t worth as much to her as ending Neil. That in the brief battle that took place in her heart, it was only a couple beats before primal fear and hatred won out over care and humanity. 

Justifiable under the circumstances or not, she simply isn’t okay with it. Susan will never truly forgive Neil for anything but even in death she has yet another thing to hold against him. That of all the ways Neil shrunk her down and shelled her out, of all the good things he husked out of her, he inevitably left her in a position where the worst things she had inside took precedence over every kind, tender thing that made her different from him. 

Susan once read a book she no longer remembers the title of. It was about children and killing, and children killing children. A morbid book that wasn’t to her taste at all and was read only because she’d read every other book on the shelf, every corner of the house had been scrubbed spotless, and Neil had hidden her car keys again. Susan couldn’t fathom why anyone would write about such horrific things but the ending lines stuck with her so, she remembers them word for word:

_She practices slicing the knife across her own throat so that when the time comes, she won’t hesitate._

_When the time comes—_

_When the time comes, they are all monsters._

* * *

Billy is up when Susan gets home, restlessly drumming his fingers on the countertop while the coffee brews. 

“Good Morning,” she greets. 

Billy glances over, gives a surly nod. It’s a step up from a grunt or a middle finger in the air. 

“I, uh, did a little running around. I got your gauze and um, I hope you don’t mind but I got your prescription too…” 

“You went digging through my pockets?” Billy narrows his eyes. 

“Well, I was going out anyway, I figured I’d save you a trip.” Susan sets the bag down on the counter. 

“Not gonna thank you for snooping,” Billy says, a tad grumpy but no real bite behind the words, so Susan decides to press a bit. 

“Please take them responsibly and follow the instructions. Narcotics shouldn’t be abused and it’s dangerous to mix them with alcohol.” 

His nostrils flare and just like that, the bite is back, her pleas evidently unappreciated. 

“Seriously? I can’t even make a cup of coffee without you being a buzzkill now?” 

“I just—“ 

“Screw off,” Billy snaps. “Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do. Nobody tells me what to do.” 

How delicately phrased, how tactful and polite of him. 

Susan tucks her chin and retreats into the living room. Billy was okay with her last night. Even a little playful, albeit in his own vulgar, appalling way. Let her change his sheets without snarling in her face. That reminds her, she needs to wash his other set today before the bloodstains set permanently. 

It occurs to her that perhaps he’s in pain again, that maybe she should’ve waited for him to actually take a pill and let it work its magic before she tried to press him. Not that Susan desires to push his boundaries too much at all. Whether he’s hurting or not, Billy doesn’t like her, has never liked her, and Susan doesn’t want to make waves with him. But she also doesn’t want him to toss the instructions in the trash, get blitzed and stop breathing. 

Perhaps it’s an exaggerated worry. But he just…the recklessness really makes her nervous sometimes. She’s still hoping he’ll settle down though. Neil is gone. Neil can’t stress Billy out if he isn’t here. 

Or Susan’s just telling herself what she wants to believe. Because by that logic, she shouldn’t feel the threatening raise of Neil’s voice thunder through her bones, shouldn’t feel the savage desperation to cleave his head from his shoulders because surely that was the only thing that could stop the demon she’d wed. Neil is gone but he left these things in her and he left things in Billy too. 

But it’s still new, Susan reminds herself. The loss is still fresh. Things take time. Neil is gone but he hasn’t been gone long, there’s plenty of time for the echoes to fade. Susan is sure it’ll help getting his things out of the house. 

Today is Monday. Tuesday is trash day. Susan will spend the day continuing to stuff Neil’s things in garbage bags and boxes. She’ll spend the evening piling it all up on the curb, exactly where it belongs. 

Billy walks in, drug store bag on his arm, coffee cup in his hand. “You’re not taking Max to school?” 

“No. She had a bad night so I called her in.” 

“Oh…” Billy goes quiet for a moment, unreadable look crossing his features. 

Susan refrains from asking if something is wrong. Billy’s made it apparent he prefers her at a distance and to his credit, it’s still early in the morning and he’s possibly in pain. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if he wants a ride to school because precautions against driving were printed on the label of the pill bottle, or if he ever even plans on going back to school anyway, or what he wants for breakfast, if anything. 

After a moment, Billy blinks slowly and shuffles down the hall. Susan slips into the kitchen and pours some coffee for herself. She’s exhausted but she just can’t sleep, so she might as well try to perk up. 

She wants to make breakfast. She’s accustomed to preparing large meals but there are only three people to cook for now. There are still hashbrowns and sausages left over from yesterday because Billy wasn’t home in the morning and didn’t eat anything until the night, as far as Susan can tell. Max is probably sick of eggs but Susan doesn't want to make crepes or pancakes because anything with syrup will just lend itself to frustration and a mess waiting to happen with Max down to one non-dominant hand. 

Susan recalls the scone recipe she’d crammed in her purse at the clinic. Scones sound good. Scones seem like an easy, doable food for Max, whenever she rises. Something she won't saturate in sticky syrup. Something she doesn’t need to uncoordinatedly jab forks into, food that doesn’t require cutting up or two hands to eat.

Susan still has cranberries left from the chicken salad. She smooths the crinkly page and checks to be sure she has the other ingredients too. She does. She sips her coffee and gets to making scones because she can. Because Neil is no longer here to tell her they’re dry and hard, a waste of ingredients she could’ve put into something more palatable to his taste. 

Susan makes scones and she’s undoubtedly just overtired and slap happy, and restless, but as she goes along, she finds herself replacing stones with scones in the verses committed to memory no matter how much she no longer believes.

 _Ecclesiastes 3:5, A time to throw_ scones _and a time to gather_ scones _;_  
_A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing._

 _1 Samuel 17:49, And David put his hand into his bag and took from it a_ scone _and slung it, and struck the Philistine on his forehead. And the_ scone _sank into his forehead, so that he fell on his face to the ground._

It’s stupid. It’s so immature and stupid but Susan chuckles to herself anyway, dollops the dough onto the baking sheet and muses on her own profound sinfulness. She’s a murderer and a masturbator. A murderous masturbator who masturbates to being a murderer. Say that three times fast. Does that make it three sins instead of two? 

Who’s counting? Who truly has the right to count?

 _John 8:7, But when they persisted in asking Him, He straightened up, and said to them, “He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a_ scone _at her.”_

So there!

“What’re you giggling like a fiend for?” 

Susan glances over as Billy treads over the threshold. 

“Nothing that makes sense,” she chirrups earnestly. “I’m just very overtired.” 

“Yeah, you’re looking like a raccoon with those circles around your eyes. Anybody ever tell you you have a weird laugh?” 

“Mhm. Your father.” Susan dollops more dough on the sheet. Neil hated her laugh and made sure she knew it. Over the years her laugher became very rare, but on any occasion it did burble out, if Neil was around, it’d be insulted and criticized. 

“…sorry.” 

Susan freezes. She's fully aware she's battling exhaustion but she didn’t believe herself fatigued enough to be hallucinating. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing,” Billy mumbles, rubbing at his neck as he shuffles a couple steps closer. “Smells good.” 

He nods to the oven, the first batch already baking inside. Perhaps two batches is excessive in a house of only three mouths, but Susan’s already made the dough and she won’t waste it. 

“Cranberry-orange scones,” Susan hums, smiling gently.

“Scones,” he repeats. “Sounds British.” 

Susan studies Billy from the corner of her eye, isn’t sure what he came in here for. He’s just kind of hovering, expression neutral. Neither arm is protecting his middle anymore and Susan’s inclined to interpret that as a good sign, probably means the painkillers are doing their job. 

She’d like to ask and keep tabs on him, but it’s probably better not to mention it. Not yet. Billy came to her last night and as taken aback as Susan was by the sheer shock of it, hopefully it means he’d say something to her again if he really had to. Well, if he was bleeding enough for concern, at least. In actuality, she wishes he would’ve said something even sooner yesterday, but she can’t blame him for waiting as long as he did. Why would Billy seek help for his wounds? 

When and where would he have learned to do that? Who would’ve taught him? 

“I think I’ll only glaze one batch and leave the other plain,” she hums aloud, not really to Billy, just talking out her process. 

Behind her, Billy opens the refrigerator. He gets the orange juice out and Susan prepares for the disgust and exasperation that will follow the sight of him drinking straight from the carton. It doesn’t come. To her shock and awe, Billy takes a glass out of the cabinet and pours the juice into it like a sensible human being with manners. 

It also surprises her that he doesn’t take the glass and leave. Billy sits down and sips it at the table. Just sits there placidly and sips. Susan isn’t really used to that. Sharing rooms with him quietly. Billy of his own volition, entering a room and sitting near her at all. 

He should eat something. He just should. Susan is positive he ate too little yesterday and now he’s on medication. The first batch of scones isn’t even out of the oven yet. He should have something sooner. 

Susan doesn’t ask. She’s worried if she opens her mouth, she might ruin it, this nascent and nebulous quiet between them. So she fetches the leftover links without a word and heats them in the microwave. Places the plate in the middle of the table. 

Sure enough, when the steam dissipates, Billy plucks a sausage and bites out a chunk. Susan keeps her smile to herself. She mixes the glaze for the scones. 

Max wanders in mere moments after Susan’s arranged the first batch on the cooling rack. 

“Ooh.” Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she reaches for one, and Susan gently halts her hand. 

“Not yet. They’re too hot.” 

Max mumbles dissent but plops down in a chair anyway, raising a brow at Billy. “Are you dropping out?” 

“No. Just don’t feel like going back yet.” 

“I mean, your excuses are as good as mine, but you’re gonna have a shit ton—“ 

“Maxine,” Susan cuts in pointedly. 

“—a crap ton of catchup work.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Right, you don’t care about anything but your mullet and your car.” Max rolls her eyes, then points to the sausage plate. “Are those still warm?” 

“Nope.” 

“Mom, can you nuke—“ Max breaks off as Susan dips a brush in the glaze. “I’ll get it.” 

She rises from her chair, grips the plate with her good hand and makes her way to the microwave. She has to set it down on the counter to open the microwave, then pops it in. 

“About thirty seconds,” Susan suggests. 

“Okay.” 

Susan tries not to think about the gruesome things Max joined and witnessed or the way the axe felt when she chose to lift it from the carpet as Billy bled out. She doesn’t want to taint the peace she feels with both of them as sweet and peppery scents mingle in the air. This peace that’s fragile in its own way, but a fragility of a different nature that isn’t so fraught as the false precarious peace that would inevitably shatter whenever Neil decided to shatter it. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm just gonna stop making plans for what i will/won't post next bc it seems like the plans just don't pan out?? one min i'm like, okay, let's focus on this long ass concept resurrected from the scrap heap and the next min i'm like, but wait, nvm let's return to the crackiest crack crackland has to offer and barf out 1k instead, ahhjsidhsih. okay, okay, but there are two certainties! 
> 
> 1) this series will *end* with the axe throwing, axe throwing is the end goal now, it makes sense. axe throwing must be worked up to, must feel like the most sensible option for familial bonding and for willing participation in family bonding to be decently forged. 2) i will begin posting the abcs of neil hargrove's death this month but i'm not gonna do it all at once as i initially planned. it's gonna be a multichap fic so i can post individual warnings before each chapter, as some chapters will be significantly graphic and potentially perturbing.


End file.
